


Quietus

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "What If" Exchangelock Autumn 2014, 221B Ficlet, Angst, Fic Exchange, Ficlet Collection, Gift Fic, John in the bonfire, M/M, Moriarty is a vampire, Prompt Fic, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach-Related, Sad, Sad Sherlock, Tumblr: exchangelock, Vampire!John, What-If, dead!John, embalmed!john, ghost!John, literal ghost in the machine, poltergeist!john, riff on the graveside speech, zombie!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five "221B" ficlets about "What if. . .John had died?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ZOMBI

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Redbeard--Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Redbeard--Holmes).



*

“Don’t be afraid; you’re only dying.”

John’s eyes were wide, rolling in panic. Sherlock reached deep into his coat, found the pewter locket, released the safety pin that held it to the lining, lifted it out.

“Smoke inhalation. I tried. John. I tried.”

John looked at Mary; she covered her mouth and squeezed her tearless eyes shut.

“I’ve got you,” Sherlock said, face close to John’s. He grinned weirdly, tipped a pile of bluish powder onto his leather-glove-clad fingertips. “ _Breathe_ ,” he urged, and he blew the powder into John’s face.

*

It took most of the night. John shivered and moaned. They lay side by side in Sherlock’s bed, and Sherlock stroked the back of John’s hand and murmured words as close to comfort as he could muster.

*

Two weeks later. John in his chair, his fingers beginning to go black at the tips. Teeth loose, dehydrated, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t eat. Lines appeared in Sherlock’s forehead and never went away. John’s mouth hung partly open. Sherlock treated his chapped lips with petroleum jelly mixed with clove oil.

“Right as rain,” Sherlock murmured, and patted John’s shoulder. “I’m lost without my blogger.”

John’s bright blue eyes glistened. Tears rolled down his face. His decaying hand caught Sherlock’s sleeve.

“Don’t you worry,” Sherlock reassured. “We’ll get it all sorted out. I’ve got you.”

*


	2. VAMPYR

*

“There’s something. . .” John started. Just two hours earlier, they’d stood beside the pool while Moriarty justified his great game.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. They were in their chairs, Macallan and Dubussy steadying their nerves.

John sucked air. He looked just as pale there, beside the fire, as he had earlier.

John slipped the tip of his middle finger under the top edge of his collar, tugged downward. A dusky bruise, a near perfect circle. In the middle, two ragged-edged punctures, still oozing blood. Sherlock’s mouth went wet, then dry.

“What’s he done to me?”

*

John did not go quietly. Sherlock lay atop him as he thrashed; he twisted a kitchen towel—“Bite down.” Twice John fought him off and Sherlock chased him through the flat, easily overtaking him, strapping John’s arms to his sides with his own lean, powerful limbs; Sherlock carried John back to their bed, to pick up on John’s dying just where they’d left off.

When John’s heart stopped, he slackened, exhaled forever, lashes thick with tears as his eyes slid shut.

Sherlock waited, relieved to no longer maintain the pretense of breathing, playing human.

The dark blue eyes came open.

“What now?” Jagged, hoarse.

“Technically,” Sherlock whispered, “You belong to him. But he’ll have to destroy me if he thinks he can claim you.”

*


	3. GEIST

*

**Cadfn ou../**

Sherlock stared at his phone’s screen.

A text.

From John.

Who was currently lying on a refrigerated stainless steel slide-out in the morgue at Bart’s.

No harm in trying. . .

**_I’m here. –SH_ **

**Cfn you/ eeee shfiwelo ckck?**

Rising from his slump on the sofa to sit erect, cradling the phone in both hands like a live thing: a fledgling, or a storm-drain kitten.

**Canyou**

**Can you**

**Sheerlockkkk .//??????????????**

“Christ.” One hand covering his mouth, his unshaven chin. Sherlock’s eyes scanned the flat as if he would find John there, stood beside the fridge, _it was just a prank, Sherlock, jesus you’re an idiot. People don’t die from that._ Of course, there was nothing—no one—to see. Just the usual musty-smelling clutter, the glow of the laptop on his desk.

He moved to it, still holding his phone in one hand. Email? Chat? He opened a blank text document, waited. What was he waiting for? It was a glitch, an accident. Or he was going mad. Another glance at the phone.

**Sheerlockkk.// ??????????????**

Then, all at once, on the laptop screen.

**Better here. Can you feel me, Sherlock?**

“John?” A pause. “Oh. . .”

**_John?_ **

**Why can’t I see you? It’s so dark. Am I blind?**

Whispering: “You’re dead.”

**_I’m so glad you’re here, John._ **

 

*****


	4. PLASTIQUE

*

John is sinking a bit; Sherlock will have to get more gauze and more dried flowers, puff him up, fill in the gaps. John’s skin is slackening, drawn down now by gravity and atrophying muscle. Sherlock gently works John’s fingers every day, bends and straightens each knuckle, massages the palms with sandalwood-scented oil. He has already had to clip John’s fingernails once; they keep growing.

John lies on Sherlock’s bed wearing loose pyjama bottoms (Sherlock’s) and the navy-and-cerulean striped t-shirt (John’s own) that made John’s eyes look bright and oceanic. John’s eyes are closed; Sherlock has, of course, been near enough to see the tiny knot of beige thread at the outside corner, nearly hidden by John’s impossibly long, golden eyelashes.

A plastic storage bin beside the bed; clear, flexible tubing from beneath John’s sleeve; liquid dripping; a custom concoction Sherlock devised as soon as he heard. The embalmers did their work (John, of all people, dying without a will; they had never discussed wakes, cremations, funerals—any of it—which strikes Sherlock as strange, in retrospect, given their line of work), and now Sherlock will make sure John is his to keep.

Mrs Hudson did wonder why Sherlock closed the doors nowadays; why he had changed the locks. Don’t worry. It’s only that he needs some time alone. With John.

*


	5. ELEGIA

*

“He barely had any _stuff_ ; it all fit in one box. I don’t know what needs doing. I thought I’d send it to his sister.  . .” Mrs Hudson hugged Sherlock’s arm. “Would you?”

“I can’t go back to the flat again. Not at the moment. . .” Sherlock let out a small sigh, then: “I’m angry.”

“It’s OK, Sherlock. There’s nothing unusual in that,” Mrs Hudson reassured. “That’s the way everyone feels when someone dies. I’ll leave you alone to. . .you know.” She went, wiping her nose with her hankie.

“Um. . .” Sherlock started. “Mmm. . .I told you once that I wasn’t a hero. Umm. . .There were times when I didn’t even think I was human. But let me tell you this. You made me feel that I was the best man, and the most _human_. . .human being. . .And you mended parts of me I didn’t even know were broken, and I only knew they were there not because you pointed them out, but because you healed them. . .and so. There.

“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

“OK.

“No. Please.

“There’s just one more thing, John. One more thing. One more miracle, John, for me. Don’t be dead. Would you do—?

“Just for me, just stop it.

“Stop this.”

 

*


End file.
